an arm for an arm
by silence.like.sleeping
Summary: Whilst at the DEO, Lena unexpectedly becomes privy to ALL the secrets: Supergirl and Kara and a glimpse of fallout.


Disclaimers: _Supergirl_ ain't mine 'cause you can be sure this is all the show would ever be: Kara, and Lena, and Angst.

A/N: With all the speculation going around of, "Will Lena find out Kara is Supergirl whilst at the DEO," I just couldn't help wondering how that would look, too (the show has hinted it won't go well); I think Lena would have a lot of cognitive dissonance, having to reconcile not only these two people who mean so much to her, but also grappling with what would truly be a loss. Anyway. Also, I personally consider Kara Zor-El to be Kara Danvers plus Supergirl, so hopefully that makes sense at the end, or whenever I finally crack and go on a rant about the subject, hahaha.

 ** _an arm for an arm_**

There aren't a lot of things that Lena doesn't know.

There are some, of course. She's not some omniscient deity and she's never pretended to be _absolutely_ perfect. Baking, for example— she never quite got the hang of it. Modern art never fails to perplex. Republicans.

 _— Lex, and Lex, and_ how _, and_ why _, and why why why why **why** —_

But. Other than those, not much escapes her. (And that which does, she sets aside. It can be baffling elsewhere, on the periphery. It doesn't matter, there. She doesn't have to look at it, there.)

This, however. _This_.

This is literally staring her in the face, all blue-eyed concern, and _this_ —

 _Why,_ Lena howls, in her head, an echo of an echo she's never stopped screaming. _Why why why why **why** —_

"Lena," Supergirl says. Kara says. Lena doesn't want to look but she can't escape from this cold gray room and this cold gray place and Supergirl— Kara?— bold and primary yet somehow more subdued than the dourest room in the DEO.

Lena chokes, instead. On air, on tears. On the acrid sting of betrayal she thought she'd never taste again but here it is all the same, toxic and resplendent on her tongue.

Questions snarl and collide as they queue in her head. _Why didn't you tell me. Why didn't I realize. What does this mean, now._

 _Who_ _are you, really._

And that is the crux, Lena finds. That is the bleeding heart and writhing soul. Because Supergirl and Kara are _not_ the same, have never _been_ the same. Kara is a friend, a confidante, someone Lena leans on and cries to and shares secrets with, damn it, _secrets_ — Kara is warm and gentle and kind and she _listens_ and she _cares_ and, and—

And Supergirl is strong, strikingly so: stance and speech and fists. She can literally bend steel around her confidence, that seemingly effortless assurance. She is a hero, an idol, one dose of Red K away from being a full-blown goddess. Lena… looks _up_ to Supergirl, strives to be worthy of Supergirl, to perhaps be good enough to stand by her side because even though that would be in her shadow, still. Still. It's so much brighter than the darkness whence she hails.

With Supergirl, Lena tries to reach the sun, regardless of blinding or burns or plummeting like poor misunderstood Icarus.

With Kara, she's never had to try. She's never had to do anything. Kara is just there, acceptingly, always.

Lena needs both of them.

But when Lena raises blurry eyes to the other woman's visage, she doesn't know who she's looking at, anymore. The identity is smeared and not from her tears, and she coughs, and she chokes, and she gasps and says,

"I want to talk to Kara."

Supergirl's brow pinches but smooths— not completely, but the furrow is no longer so marked. "I _am_ Kara," she repeats, gently, and yes, that tone is Kara's but—

Lena hears her but again, can't comprehend, and staggers through her original sentiment. "Ordinarily, in a situation like this, I'd call Kara right away. I always— I always talk to Kara. She… she…"

The sentence falters as Lena's brain aches beneath the weight of this dissonance, of this dichotomy, of watching worlds intersect like the harrowing merge of an eclipse. Of Kara, and Supergirl, no longer so separate.

The memories blur, too, all the moments they've shared— the three of them. Late-night galas and rowdy game nights and phone calls and helicopters and flying, of being cradled in iron arms on the side of a skyscraper and later, later, mere steps away from that place, of being cradled in arms now as careful and light as if Kara's bones were hollow while Lena cried, gutted from loss and sick with dread.

She feels that way now. She's lost something, she knows. She just doesn't know what yet.

Another sob: this one shreds on teeth. And Supergirl's brow pinches again, deeper this time and it doesn't fade away, and _that's Kara's expression,_ Lena thinks through the haze, _the one so empathetic it's hurting her to care but still. She cares_.

Lena buckles, and breaks, but her knees never strike the floor because Supergirl's there, catching her, and— _of course she is_ — and there's no jarring pain, no concrete in her knees.

There's just the anguish of the carefullest embrace.

"I'm right here," Supergirl says, and that's an echo, too; another memory flashes a fin from murky depths. "I'm not going anywhere."

This time, though, there are lips: soft and fleetingly warm as Supergirl dusts them across Lena's temple and murmurs, "I took something from you, and I kept something from you, too. I'm sorry for that, with my whole heart. I can say that now— _my whole heart_. Mm." She shakes her head, and Lena stares bloodshot past the blonde curls as they sweep. "That's not important. What's important is I'm sorry that I hurt you. I never meant to. I never wanted to. But I guess I was selfish. I liked being just Kara with you, too."

Lena blinks, shedding crystalline tears, and her brow furrows as well like a cracked mirror image. Her double vision steadies, clarifies, and slowly, she becomes aware of her position. She's only wrapped in one woman's arms, and whether those belong to Kara Danvers or to Supergirl or to someone else entirely doesn't matter. She's been here before.

These arms are both strong _and_ gentle.

They're familiar. Lena knows these arms, better than the identities she's attached to them. They've always been the same. They're safe.

They're home.

So Lena turns and surrenders to fate and time and the weakness in her heart that she longs to bleed away. The crook of Supergirl's neck is dark and warm, and Lena cries into it, horrible heartfelt sobs that shake her whole body and hollow out her lungs but:

Kara Zor-El holds her, as she has always held her, and Lena doesn't drown.

And maybe, just maybe, even without the extra pair of hands, the two of them can find a way to put all the pieces back again.


End file.
